


toy soldiers

by spikeface



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-07
Packaged: 2018-04-03 08:44:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,886
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4094494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikeface/pseuds/spikeface
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He's thirteen and a criminal and his life is awful.</p><p>He's gone from New Kid to Awkward Tall Guy to The Kid Who Got Dragged Out of Computer Lab by the Police in rapid succession. Criminal activity should get him street cred in a perfect world, but not when it's nerd crime. Danny is doomed.</p><p>A Danny&Jackson friendship fic, set pre-series.</p>
            </blockquote>





	toy soldiers

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to primavera for her edits and suggestions and canistakahari for politely letting me whine about it to her.

He's thirteen and a criminal and his life is awful.

He's gone from New Kid to Awkward Tall Guy to The Kid Who Got Dragged Out of Computer Lab by the Police in rapid succession. Criminal activity should get him street cred in a perfect world, but not when it's nerd crime. Danny is doomed.

He misses LA—his friends, his old house. He doesn't miss his father.

He pushes his macaroni around his plate.

The food here sucks.

He's just resigned himself to an eternity of shitty pasta and pariah-dom when a kid sits down across from him. He's so glossy Danny could have cut him out of a magazine: perfect skin and teeth that never needed braces.

"You're the guy who got arrested a few days ago."

Danny hunches over his plate and wishes the world would leave him alone. "They dropped the charges."

"Was it porn?" Danny's pretty sure he has English with this guy, although he can't remember anything beyond his face in the crowd.

Danny's had other things to think about.

"Hacking."

The kid rolls his eyes. "Duh. Were you watching porn on one of the school computers?"

" _What_?"

"It's a yes or no question."

"No!"

"Yes, it was. You just made me fifty bucks."

Of course he had only talked to him to settle a bet. "Whatever."

Danny's complete lack of enthusiasm doesn't seem to dampen the kid's victory. He beams, then looks Danny over, up and down, as if noticing him for the first time. "Hey, you try out for anything yet?"

"Sports aren't really my thing."

"Lacrosse is today, three-fifteen. You look like you've got a reach."

"I do?" That's not what he wanted to ask. "I mean, what's it to you?"

The kid laughs, gets up and turns to leave. "Be there."

His mom comes to pick him up after school and he's basically grounded in everything right now, and asking to try out for lacrosse is uncharacteristic enough that she gets uptight about it.

"We're going home," she says, mouth firm. Danny has seen that expression before, hates that he has to make her use it now. He's half tempted to give up, but this is the first possible even _start_ of a friendship he's had here and he doesn't want to fuck it up.

"No, Mom, _please_? This guy said I looked like I'd be good at it and you know Dr. Kaul thinks I need to make new connections here."

It's a dirty, dirty trick, but his mom pauses with her hand on the keys. "How long will it take?"

"Maybe an hour? You can come watch or pick me up later, I promise I'm not up to anything."

He must sound pathetic enough, or maybe she's just tired—she's been tired all the time since the move. But she lets him go, says she'll text him in an hour.

It turns out that catching the ball with a stick-net is not that hard. He's too uncoordinated to be any good at moving the ball around the field, but Coach Jamison slaps him on the back and tells him he's got the makings of a great goalie.

He takes a seat on the bleachers and watches the rest of the tryouts. The kid who talked to him takes his shot. He fumbles at first, a lot less polished in gear that's a bit too big for him and a stick he half trips on. But he cleans up towards the end, earns himself a spot on the team.

"Told you," the kid says when he goes to sit down at the bleachers after trials. "Now you just need to practice your ass off until you suck less."

"Yeah." He is pretty pleased to have made it, and to finally have someone to talk to, so he doesn't point out that this kid sucked worse than he did half the time. "You were great."

The kid looks sideways at him, eyes narrowed, as if checking for a lie. Then he shrugs. "Obviously."

Danny rubs his hands anxiously up and down his thighs, and then holds one out. "I'm Danny."

The kid raises his eyebrows. "And?"

"Um, I haven't really had the chance to learn everyone's name yet."

"You don't know who I am?" He sounds offended.

"Sorry?"

"Jackson? Jackson _Whittemore_? Ringing any bells?"

"Right, of course. Jackson Whittemore."

"You really are a complete loser." Jackson leans back, hands laced behind his head, eyes closed. "You're lucky I found you."

\+ + +

Lacrosse is good to Danny.

All the running doesn't help him put on any muscle but he never had high hopes of that anyway. He becomes Danny the Goalie, which he is more than thrilled with after The Horrifically Introverted Criminal Dork I Think His Name Begins with D. 

Baby steps.

His mom seems to like working for Google, although it means she's away a lot. Danny doesn't mind, although taking the bus to school and back whenever she's out blows.

His dad calls him once, but Danny doesn't answer or call him back.

Jackson invades lacrosse like it's manifest destiny, goes from rookie to star player practically overnight. Danny doesn't begrudge him stardom: he's seen Jackson stick around after every practice to do more work on his own. Jackson seems to really need it—lacrosse, attention.

It is nice to have friends. His mom and Dr. Kaul are thrilled.

"Just don't let sports affect your grades," his mom says one night over dinner. She'd relented on grounding him after seeing him in his first game. 

"I won't." School is pretty easy, if Danny's being modest, and the standards are set especially low for anyone lucky enough to be on the lacrosse team.

Dr. Kaul probes a little deeper. "What is it about the lacrosse team that draws you?"

"I don't know. I only tried out because my friend Jackson made me, but I like it."

"Why don't you tell me about Jackson?"

"He's the best player on the team. He's a dick, but he's okay."

"What do you mean?"

"He's bossy, but I think he's kind of lonely."

"What makes you think that?"

Danny shrugs, unable to explain that Jackson's always got people around him, but they're never _with_ him.

Dr. Kaul takes some notes, and then asks, "Are you going to tell your father about lacrosse?"

Danny shrugs again. "Maybe."

His dad emails him to let him know that he's six months sober and would like to talk if Danny has the time.

Danny never finds the time.

\+ + +

Jackson doesn't drop him once he gets his lacrosse mojo going. Danny knows he's not cool, and Jackson absolutely is: he has a posse after barely a month on the team, and girls are tripping over themselves to flirt with him.

Sometimes girls flirt with Danny, which is as surprising as it is confusing. He assumes it's cool by association from hanging out with Jackson.

Because he _does_ hang out with Jackson. 

For some inscrutable reason, Jackson sticks around—pairs with him when they practice, for lab work in bio, to do homework for bio or study for bio tests.

Jackson _sucks_ at bio.

He thinks maybe that's it, that Jackson is just using him for his science skills, or to make himself look better on the field. But Jackson finds him outside of class too—calls him over to his crowded table with an imperious wave in the cafeteria, makes his mother drive him home whenever Danny's own mom is away.

At the end of the spring semester he makes Danny go with him when they sneak out onto the roof at night. They look out over the edge. The admitted thrill of breaking in wears off for Danny pretty quick, but Jackson is looking out like he's surveying his territory, so Danny lets him have his moment.

"Dude," Jackson says suddenly and very seriously. "If you're gonna be my friend, you have to stop dressing like ass."

Danny looks down: there's nothing spilled on his shirt, fly zipped. "What's wrong with the way I dress?"

Jackson glares at him and says nothing, but that weekend Jackson's mom picks him up and drives them both over to the mall.

"You can't keep wearing shit that's ten sizes too big on you," Jackson says as he wanders through the racks, grabbing things seemingly at random.

It hides how boney he is. "My clothes are comfy." 

"So are diapers."

He emphatically does not trust Jackson, who dresses like something out of a boy band, but Jackson's mom has insisted on paying, and it would be rude to refuse. And he can't help but notice that even with Jackson's new horde of followers, Danny is the only one here with him right now.

And he does look pretty good in the clothes—manly, kinda.

"I was right," Jackson says smugly.

"My clothes are still comfier," Danny insists.

"Idiot."

Danny sighs and stares at himself in the mirror some more. Jackson is, in his Jackson sort of way, trying to be nice.

When he looks up again, Jackson is back, and holding out a black cylinder of something.

"What's that?"

Jackson rolls his eyes. "Aftershave."

"I don't even shave," Danny protests. " _You_ don't even shave."

"You'll like it." Jackson dumps it in the pile over his shoulder as he wanders off again. "It's Armani."

\+ + +

Jackson devotes the summer before freshman year to beefing up as much as possible, and decides Danny is going to join him on his death quest.

Danny devotes the summer to four things: 

a) being okay with his mom's new boyfriend  
b) learning to say no to Jackson  
c) eating more protein, and  
d) dealing with a lot of sudden and confusing boners.

He really only gets better at the third one, although working out helps a lot with the first.

He gives up in the middle of August. They're in the kitchen at Jackson's place, resting in the middle of a grueling workout in the sprawling megatron of gym equipment that Jackson casually refers to as the "exercise room."

"I think I'm gay," he says, as they sip water and try not to collapse.

"Duh you're gay." Jackson is frowning into his smartphone. "Why, are you gay for me?"

"What? What do you mean 'duh' I'm gay?" As usual, wrong question first. "Wait, what do you mean _gay for you_?"

Jackson looks up, bored and annoyed and condescending all in one look. "Please."

He's way too good at that. "Do you practice that look in front of the mirror?"

"I'd totally understand. I mean, look at me."

"How could you even know I'm gay before _I_ know?"

Jackson waves a hand expansively. "Straight guys know."

"Maybe I'm bisexual." He's thought about it—about girls. He's not bisexual.

"You're not bisexual."

Danny folds his arms on the table and lays his head down. "I hate you."

"You love me," Jackson says, too quickly. Then he leans forward, pouting his lips outrageously, and says low, "And my _hot_ , _sexy_ body."

Danny covers his head with his hands. "This friendship is over. I refuse to accept your disgusting lifestyle choices."

Jackson laughs and slaps his shoulder. "Break time's over, Danny-boy. Time to pump iron."

Only his dad has ever called him "Danny-boy," but arguing with Jackson is too much trouble.

\+ + +

He's not into Jackson. Partly it's because Jackson emanates aggressive jock. Another part is that Jackson is kind of an annoying asshole when he isn't being Danny's best friend. Also he's seen Jackson puke too many times to find him hot.

Mostly it's because Danny has a complete type and he is not at all like Jackson Whittemore.

In freshman year his type is named Steven Summers. He's a senior and works for the school newspaper and has published poetry and is brilliant and funny and _hot_ and has a tiny scar on his chin.

The whole package.

"He's a loser," Jackson says when he catches Danny watching Steven one too many times. They're in the hallway during a free period, ostensibly doing French.

Jackson _sucks_ at French.

Danny scowls. "He's an artist."

"Same thing."

"You're such an asshole sometimes."

Jackson raises his eyebrows—Danny rarely snaps at him. Then he shrugs. "At least I'm not a loser."

Jackson looks at Steven, who's standing at the other end of the hallway, gesturing with his beautiful hands and smiling and being generally perfect. Danny is pretty sure he's gay, at least, although that doesn't make him any more attainable.

Jackson grabs his shoulder to get his attention. "What's he got that I haven't got?"

Danny shrugs his hand off. "Sensitivity? Basic manners? Hair he doesn't spend thirty minutes on every morning?"

Jackson sulks, lower lip stuck out and cheekbones somehow even more prominent. He looks like something from a shitty vampire romance. "I can be sensitive—and even better, I can get you laid. I will totally get this guy on your dick."

"Yeah, you're the very model of decency and conscience."

"Shut up." Jackson slaps his shoulder again, but he's smiling. "This junior girl Ariella is throwing a post-midterm party and we're going."

"Freshmen don't get invited to parties like that."

"They do when they're Whittemores."

"I'm not a Whittemore."

Jackson looks, of all things, offended. "You can be my plus one."

"Won't that hurt your chances with the babes?"

"Danny, a nuclear apocalypse couldn't hurt my chances with 'the babes.'"

Jackson's kind of a spazz, but he's as good as his word on this one, and they get into Ariella's sprawling labyrinth of a house with no problems. It's mostly juniors and seniors—including Steven.

Jackson immediately abandons him to go mack on girls with flagrant success. Danny finds a soda and settles on a couch that doesn't have anyone making out on it yet. There's a few people from the lacrosse team here, older guys, and he chats with them a bit. The music's good, there's alcohol but no one's too crazy, and Danny feels pretty cool.

Cool and content where he is. Very content. Not at all discontent.

He's still there when Jackson finds him an hour later. "You're so pathetic. You look like the last shitty puppy in the window that nobody wants."

"Why are we friends, again?"

"Because I'm always right. Just go talk to him. He's into you." He gestures at Steven, across the room.

"And you can what—sense this with your magical straight boy powers?"

Jackson smirks. "It's a gift."

Danny turns his solo cup in his hands until Jackson rips it out of his hand, pulls him up by his arm, and shoves him in Steven's direction. " _Go_ , dumbass."

Danny goes.

Steven is chatting with a few friends by the liquor table, which at least gives Danny the opportunity to approach him. He turns as Danny gets near, and smiles.

"Hi," Steven says.

Danny has never actually talked to Steven up close before, and realizes abruptly that he's not only taller than him but a good deal broader, thanks to Jackson's ruthless pushup regime. And he's wearing the clothes Jackson still forces him to buy every time they go shopping, and the aftershave he really does like, especially now that he's actually shaving. The knots around his chest loosen; he manages a smile. "Hi."

"What are you drinking?" Steven asks.

Danny doesn't want anything but also doesn't want to sound like a pathetic freshman loser with daddy issues. "I don't know—what's good?"

"That depends." Steven steps a little closer. "What do you like?"

"Uh." Danny refuses to panic. "Whatever you're into."

Steven laughs. "Good answer."

Steven gets him a drink, and then says, "I'm Steven, by the way."

"Danny. You write for the school paper, right?"

Steven grins. "You've read my work?"

"Yeah. You're good—and your poetry's good too."

He regrets saying it as soon as the words leave his mouth because he must sound like a _complete_ stalker, but Steven smiles again—a shyer one, this time. "Really?"

The night only gets better from there. Steven doesn't even notice that he never touches his drink.

\+ + +

"So did you guys do it?" Jackson asks on Monday, before first period.

"You're such a pervert."

"That's not an answer."

"We talked about his poetry."

Jackson's expression doesn't change.

Danny sighs, gives into the goofy smile that's been thumping away in his chest since Saturday night. "And then we made out for like an hour."

Jackson whoops, hand up for a fist bump that Danny reluctantly gives him, feeling stupid and thrilled at the same time.

\+ + +

His mom officially ends his grounding after he makes first line. She'd never been that serious about it—Danny had always been too much of a good kid for her to be really practiced in that kind of thing—but it means a lot that she isn't even pretending anymore. She comes to all of his games and smiles when he texts Steven all through dinner.

The only downside is that now when he doesn't want to go to one of Lydia's endless parties, he doesn't haven an excuse.

"Um, okay."

"You are the worst at having fun," Jackson says. "Just bring Steve."

"Steven."

"What?"

"He goes by Steven, not Steve." He can't help smiling, remembering Steven's earnest seriousness about it. Steve is a kid's name, he insists—he wants to be a Steven. Steven is full of stupid earnest stuff like that, his artist's hands always waving expressively.

Jackson rolls his eyes and sighs melodramatically. "You are so high maintenance."

"Can't all be as laid back as you," Danny says.

Jackson smirks. 

"And I don't know if he'll want to come—he's got a lot of stuff to do."

"No one is too busy for one of my parties, Danny," Lydia says sternly, and then softens at his look. "Besides, he should be so lucky. You're one of the most popular boys in school."

That seems like it shouldn't be true, but Lydia is never wrong about these kinds of things. Danny thinks on it, starts to wonder if Lydia actually might be right, given:

a) Being first line on the lacrosse team basically vaunts you to godhood.  
b) Being friends with Jackson does even more.  
c) He has dimples.  
d) Everyone apparently goes apeshit for dimples.

They have a game that weekend, and there are at least three posters with his name on them—and none of them are even his mom, who is away on business. Steven isn't there—sports aren't really his thing—but he comes afterward, and they hang around until the lockers are empty and take a shower together.

Afterward they go back to his place, lie down on the couch and turn on Netflix—but they never even look at anything, spend the next three hours talking about nothing. They don't even talk about anything but Danny talks more he ever has in his life and it feels like he's saying more than what he's actually saying. Steven told Danny about all the things he wanted to do with his poetry, how hard it was to do them, how important. He's so good at talking—in his poetry, when they're hooking up, even in the dark like this. Danny's never met anyone like that, admires him so much his whole body hurts.

He wants to give something to Steven, struggles with how. "I want—I really like you," he says, interrupting Steven in the middle of one of his explanations. Steven starts. "I want to be with you."

Smooth. 

Steven had been talking about something important to him and now it seems like Danny wasn't even listening. Steven's eyes are wide, mouth open. "Sorry, I mean—"

But then Steven smiles really wide and kisses him to shut him up. "I like you too, Danny."

He falls asleep on Danny's chest and he's not actually that small of a guy and Danny's a little crushed but he's breathing so deep and feels so fragile. He's drooling a little in his sleep, frowning. 

Things are, for the first time in a really long time, really good.

Of course it's doesn't last.

\+ + +

The most infuriating thing is that Danny has no idea it's coming. With his dad there were so many signs, so many things they ignored and excused and tried to wish away. But things are—they're _good_ with Steven. New and exciting and definitely scary but he's—for the first time Danny thinks he might actually have what he wants. That he might be enough for someone that they don't need anyone else, anything else.

He finds them in the fucking bathroom.

Steven has his hand down the other guy's pants—Danny doesn't even recognize him—and he's moaning into his mouth the way he did that first perfect night they kissed.

"Uh," Danny says, always the wrong thing. It leaves him in one breathless whump, like he's been punched.

Steven looks up, eyes wide. "Danny?"

"What—" Jackson would know exactly what to do in this situation, would have some clever cutting thing ready in his pocket. Danny flounders, backs up instinctively. "What the hell?"

"Okay, wait. Danny, wait, okay, it's not anything, just calm down and I'll—"

Danny leaves.

\+ + +

He doesn't have much of an appetite that evening.

"Everything all right?" his mother asks.

"Fine, Mom—just a test coming up." He smiles at her. "Thanks for asking."

He can tell she's not convinced, but she'd never push it.

\+ + +

He really thinks he's fine until halfway through practice he means to whirl around another player and slams into him instead, throwing him to the ground so hard he can hear all the breath leave the guy's lungs.

It's McCall, of all people, one of the few other freshman on the team and a tiny little shrimp of a dude. He's never even made it off the bench and Danny feels like an asshole.

"Sorry—here, man." He grabs McCall's hand, pulls him up. 

McCall, to his credit, shakes his head and manages a grin as blood drips from his nose. "No worries."

He makes a point to concentrate on doing nothing but passing to McCall for the rest of practice, even though McCall fumbles it most of the time and can't aim at all. Coach gets pissed and he can tell McCall is kind of embarrassed, but he doesn't care—it gives him something to focus on.

"You didn't have to do that," McCall says in the locker room, when practice is over.

"I know. I'm sorry about your face, though."

"Don't be—it's like that because his mom dropped him as a kid," calls out a voice from another row of lockers. It sounds like Stilinski, the other benchwarmer on the team.

McCall rolls his eyes. It's appallingly charming. "Are you okay?"

Danny freezes, terrified at the idea that McCall can see through him—that everyone can see through him. "What? I'm fine. What? I'm fine—I mean, I'm fine."

McCall blinks. "Oookay. Look, you don't have to keep passing to me. I kind of suck at it."

"You don't—you're not that bad."

"You really are." Jackson appears from nowhere, casually grabs Danny's shoulder and leans against him. It's nothing he hasn't done before, nonchalantly possessive, but this time Danny can't help but lean away. Jackson frowns, but he doesn't say anything until McCall has scurried off.

"So what is it?"

"It's nothing." Not what he meant to say. Nothing is what he means to say. "What do you mean?"

"Don't bullshit me, Danny. You were crap today. Even Lydia noticed and she doesn't know shit about lacrosse."

"She knows more than you think she does."

"Don't avoid the question."

"I said it's nothing."

"And I _know_ it's not. Just tell me."

"There's nothing to tell."

"Did something happen with Steven?"

"No."

"Yes, it did."

"Just shut _up_ , okay?"

Jackson throws his hands in the air, palms open. "Fine, just calm down—"

Danny slams the locker door so hard it rattles. " _Shut_ — _up_."

"You—" Jackson starts off annoyed but breaks off, switches to confused. "What the hell's your problem?"

"Just leave me alone." He means to yell but it just comes out a pathetic plea, and he thinks that's what makes Jackson pause. Danny puts a hand on his shoulder. "I'm fine, Jackson, really."

Jackson says nothing. He looks hurt, eyes wide and unguarded, and Danny _hates_ it, hates it so much he holds his breath, walks away.

Danny doesn't sit with him at lunch, finds ways to avoid him for the rest of the week.

\+ + +

Steven texts him nonstop.

He says a lot of things that have no meaning so Danny just tunes them out. He's heard excuses before. He ignores them until Steven corners him in the bathroom, says a lot of things that make Danny hold his breath and stare at the wall until Steven gives up and leaves.

Then he's alone.

\+ + +

Three days later Lydia finds him in a fog on a bench outside school. She takes his arm gently, pulls him to his feet and starts to walk with him, with purpose but no apparent goal, aimlessly around the building. Danny likes Lydia and she's Jackson's girlfriend and basically the Queen of All Freshmen and a few of the other grades too, so he follows along where she leads.

But eventually his arm is stiff and he's a little annoyed and basically bored; this may be a fantasy for ninety percent of the boys in school but Danny is not one of them. "So, can I help you with something?"

"You know, the other girls warned me that if I dated Jackson I'd be dating both of you."

"I'm not into girls," Danny says patiently, as he has already explained to a few heartbroken freshman girls. He frowns. "Or Jackson."

Lydia somehow looks down her nose at him while being about a foot shorter than him. "Duh. But Jackson won't shut up about you being so down. It's starting to _interfere_."

"Oh," he says, growing more irritated. "Sorry?"

"Don't be sorry—do something about it."

"What am I supposed to do? I've already told him to—"

Steven's hateful voice echoes in his head: _calm down_.

He realizes he's grinding his jaw, probably clenching Lydia's arm a little too hard. He forces himself to relax.

Lydia seems not to notice, still perfectly composed. "My mom always says: don't get mad, get even."

"Got arrested the last time I tried that."

Lydia tilts her head, looks thoughtful and artful as she twirls her hair. "So get trashed."

Maybe he can do that.

\+ + +

His mom is doing an overnight in San Francisco, so he has the place to himself. There's a bottle of wine at the back of the cabinet. His mother likes the occasional glass of red, has told Danny on numerous occasions that he could join her if he wanted.

He takes it down, pours himself some.

It tastes sour, sticks in his mouth.

His father drank anything—had downed a bottle of listerine the first time his mother had mentioned divorce.

Danny pours the glass of wine down the sink. 

The house is big and too empty as Danny paces around it. He feels restless, like he's stuck in a country where he doesn't speak the language. He opens up his computer, because at least those make sense.

He's improved a lot with them since he was thirteen.

 _Get even_ , Lydia had said.

He turns off the computer and turns off the lights and turns off his phone so he doesn't call his father and tell him he's ruined everything—drinking, computers, his family, his entire fucking life.

\+ + +

It's so dumb. They hadn't even been dating that long and everything else is really great. But Danny can't forget about it, can't stop replaying everything in his head and wondering if there was something he did, something else he could have done. Steven had tried to push him to get out more—probably he thought Danny was boring.

Danny is boring.

"Are you still not over it? You were together for like three weeks." Jackson is squinting at him in the hallway, looking like he's in actual pain at the thought of talking about this.

Danny wishes he wouldn't.

"Just hook up with someone else and forget about him already. Or hook up with someone and make sure he finds out about—jealousy gets them every time."

Danny bites down on his tongue to stop himself from saying something really mean. Jackson is trying. He knows that. "Where would I even do that, I'm not into any of the other gay guys at school."

Jackson shrugs. "Turn one of the straight ones. You know anyone on the lacrosse team would blow you in a second, present company obviously excluded."

Danny's lips twist bitterly. "Obviously."

Jackson sidles up next to him, jostles him annoyingly with his shoulder. "Aww, Danny, don't be mad because you can't have this."

"Would you just—" It's too much to have Jackson there, taking up all of his space and the entire hallway just by breathing. "I just want to get out for a while."

"Come up to the lake house with me and Lydia this weekend."

"And watch the two of you drool all over each other while I sit on the other side of the couch? Pass."

"I'm not gonna let you sit at home alone and jerk off in tears, Danny—I cannot be seen with friends like that."

Danny grits out, "I'm going out. Dancing."

A new club had opened up in the next town over, some dumb warehouse thing. Steven had mentioned it, had been trying to talk Danny into going before everything. Danny had hedged every time, been trying to think of a way to get out of it. But he can go by himself. He doesn't need anyone.

"You don't dance," Jackson says—final, like he knows everything.

"I do now."

"Will _Steven_ be there?"

Maybe. Probably. "Who cares?" 

"That's not a good idea."

"It's not supposed to be. Can't I enjoy the occasional dumb idea?"

"All your ideas are dumb."

It's nothing Jackson hasn't said a hundred times before, in a hundred different varieties. Jackson hands out insults like doctors hand out lollipops. But for some reason this one stings more than most. " _My_ ideas? You were the one who told me to go out with Steven in the first place."

"So this is my fault?" Jackson is clearly pissed, his entire face twisted with it. "I didn't tell you to go out with Steven, and I _definitely_ didn't tell you to let him walk all over you. You need to get angry, Danny."

"I am angry."

"No, you're whining—and at the wrong person."

"Whatever." Danny walks away before he can say anything else, holding his breath, his hands clenched at his sides.

\+ + +

He just wants to dance and get stupid, like any normal teenager.

Jungle is new enough to need any business they can get, and seem ready to do most of it with bored high school boys who wish they were eighteen, never mind twenty-one, and they let him in with only the barest glance at his ID. Inside it's dark and bright at the same time, music pounding, and there are go-go dancers and someone doing acrobatic tricks, and the whole place smells like liquor and cologne and sweat.

This was a dumb idea.

He hears Jackson saying it, his smug stupid face when Danny admits he was right, and the thought propels him forward, up to the bar.

The bartender gives him a look that says he doesn't even need to see his ID to know that it's fake, and Danny guesses anything he orders is going to be ninety nine percent water. For a second knowing that floods him with relief, but the next he's so angry he can barely breathe past the lump of it in his throat.

 _Fuck you,_ he thinks, and orders a drink. And he keeps thinking it— _fuck you, fuck you, fuck, fuck_ —with each successive one.

Eventually he's had a lot and he's not chanting anything in his head anymore and he feels pretty numb and it feels okay. Some guy asks him to dance and he's hot—in a jockish sort of way—and Danny dances and doesn't care about anything.

And then someone taps him on the shoulder and Danny doesn't know why he didn't expect to turn around and see Steven's stupid face.

He's with someone else—the same someone else he'd been with at the bathroom, Danny recognizes hazily.

Jackson's advice echoes in his head: _hook up with someone and make sure he finds out about—jealousy gets them every time._

It was never about Danny in the first place.

He's over on the other edge of the dance floor before he can think about it, shoving past people who shout at him but he doesn't hear it. He doesn't hear anything over the sound of the roaring in his head, and he's grabbed Steven before he can even think about it and pushed him away.

"Danny? What the fuck are you doing here?"

And somehow his surprise is the worst—that he'd never expected Danny to show, that he'd known so utterly that he could just be here and not have to think about Danny at all.

He punches him before he can think about it.

It's a pretty shitty punch. Danny is good at lacrosse and working out for lacrosse and hauling Jackson off people when he gets into fights but there's a reason he got really into hacking and it wasn't because he was good at brawling. The bouncers haul him off quick and shove him out. 

Suddenly he's alone and drunk in the dark outside some fucking _warehouse_ in the middle of fucking nowhere and he's so betrayed he doesn't know what to do, doesn't know how he's even standing up under all this weight. He can't stop seeing Steven's _stupid_ face but there's something else, more important, big and dark at the back of his mind. It's choking him, he can't breathe, he needs to spit it out before he dies. He never wants to talk to either of them again but he needs to keep yelling, and his voice is hoarse and his eyes are burning but something is _pushing_ him so he takes out his phone and dials a number he hasn't dialed in years and it's a fucking answering machine but that doesn't stop him.

"I hate you," he says. "I hate you, I _hate_ you. You never put me first and you never gave a shit until I left and now all of a sudden I'm just supposed to let you back in and not be angry anymore. I hate you so much. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, Dad."

He stares at the phone in his hand.

Tears drip off his face, drop quietly to the ground.

He calls Jackson because he doesn't know what else to do.

Jackson picks up to say "I fucking knew it," and shows twenty minutes later in the Porsche.

"You are so stupid," he bellows. " _Get_ in the car."

Danny gets.

"You're such a fucking mess," Jackson snaps, and throws a towel at him. "How the fuck did you get so much glitter on you? I told you this was a bad idea."

"I know," Danny says miserably. Crying is crap, but he doesn't want to stop.

"Never do things I tell you are bad ideas!"

"I know!"

"If you know then why did you do it?" Jackson screams, slapping the driver's wheel.

"I don't know!"

Jackson grips the wheel tighter, hisses, "Don't you fucking dare puke on the Porsche or I will throw you out, I swear to god."

Danny politely waits until they're in front of his house to spew all over the grass.

Jackson curses and makes him drink water, sets an alarm for him, and then dumps him into bed.

Danny's passed out in seconds.

\+ + +

He wakes up the next day hungover and kind of sticky even after a shower. He pukes his way through suicide runs until Coach takes pity on him and lets him curl up on the bench. He feels like ass and probably looks like rock bottom.

McCall trots up to the bleachers toward the end of practice to use his inhaler. Danny can hear his wheezing from five feet away. "You okay?"

"Yeah," McCall says. He sits, takes another puff, holds his breath and then lets it out in a smile. "You?"

Every word Danny said to his father stands out in vibrant detail. He cringes at the memory, alone in the dark shouting into a phone, crying, but he wouldn't take it back, if he had the chance.

McCall is still waiting for an answer, his face open. It's a nice face. Danny thinks for a second about what it'd be like to have McCall look at him like that all the time—to be with someone who asked questions. It's not as scary a thought as it used to be.

"Been worse," he says finally. "Thanks."

McCall smiles again. He has dimples too, Danny realizes.

Jackson strolls up at the end of practice while everyone else hits the showers. He glares at McCall expectantly, waves at him to shoo when McCall doesn't move immediately. McCall looks unimpressed, turns to Danny instead: "Take it easy, man."

Jackson glares at McCall until he's left the field, finally turns to Danny with his arms crossed. "A _freshman_ , Danny? Have you learned nothing?"

" _We're_ freshmen," Danny says.

Jackson looks at him flatly. He might be right about McCall, if Danny is honest. Weird—yesterday it seemed impossible that he'd ever want anyone else.

"You know literally anyone else on the team will do you. Everyone keeps asking me who messed you up and where to find them."

"I took care of it."

"That's what I told them. We could still beat someone up for you, though."

"Pass." Danny is tired and dehydrated and cranky, but he isn't angry anymore. It's a different kind of not angry now, a kind of pleasant exhaustion he's only ever tasted after winning a big game.

"So what happened?" Jackson prompts.

"Got thrown out of a nightclub for punching Steven in the face. My life is a gritty action movie."

"Feel any better?"

"I think so." He's exhausted, all wrung out, but it's not as awful as he expected. "My hand hurts."

"Let me see." Jackson takes his hand before he can offer it, turns it over gently, rubs his thumb over Danny's knuckles. "You're barely even bruised. Your life is a shitty rom-com."

"You don't even watch romantic comedies."

"Of course I watch them—I do _girls_."

"Name three."

Jackson names _The Notebook_.

"'A' for effort," Danny says, because he's already a terrible friend and his head _hurts_.

"Ok, genius, see if I ever pick your drunk ass up again at three in the morning."

He slouches down into the bleachers. "I'm really sorry."

Jackson heaves a sigh. "Go home, dude. You look like vomit."

"I'm sorry for throwing up too."

"Just shut up and go home. I'll come by later."

Danny goes. His house feels empty. He feels empty—sits on the couch and watches the sky out the window.

Then his father calls. 

Danny watches the phone vibrate along his table like he has a dozen times before, but whatever used to stop him from picking up is gone, because the phone is at his ear and he's saying, "Hi."

"Danny?" His father sounds shocked. He also sounds different—clearer, kind of.

"Yeah, I'm here."

"I, uh, got your message, from last night."

He doesn't know what to say. "Sorry. I was probably incoherent."

"Not at all." His father's voice goes rough for a second, and he doesn't quite recover. "You don't have to apologize Danny, _I_ do. I'm so sorry, Danny."

His father is crying.

"It's okay," Danny says, uncomfortable.

" _No_. Danny—god, I wish I were there—it doesn't have to be okay. You can be angry. I'm not calling to try to get your forgiveness, I just wanted—I just wanted the chance to apologize, if you'd give it to me."

"Okay." All the air seems sucked out of him, and he should be suffocating but instead he just feels deflated, his skin loose where it used to be stretched to bursting.

"I've been sober since you left—almost a year now."

"Okay," he repeats.

"And I'd really like to have you back in my life, if you'd let me. And you don't have to let me, Danny—ugh, goddammit, I had this all planned and now—but I know I hurt you Danny. I always knew, but I've—I'm facing it now. So if you don't want me in your life, I—I'll understand. I will. I just—if you're ever ready for anything—an email, a phone call, anything. I want to be there for you, Danny. I know I wasn't there before. If you'd let me."

"Okay." He swallows. "I mean, okay. Maybe I could email you."

"Great," his dad says, and Danny can hear him struggling to get his act together.

"So," Danny says, "I'm on the lacrosse team now. Oh, and I'm gay."

"What's lacrosse?"

Danny laughs despite himself. "Really? That's your question?"

"I've never heard of it! Oh—oh! Well, to be honest I thought you might be."

"Seems like everyone knew before I did."

"I don't know, sometimes you can just tell. Not that I haven't been wrong before."

"It happens."

Now his father laughs. "Maybe I can hear about lacrosse, though."

"Maybe." Maybe. "I've gotta go now, though. Got a friend coming over."

"All right. Goodbye, Danny. I love you, son."

"Bye, Dad. I—I'll talk to you later."

Danny puts the phone down, thinks about his father. The thought doesn't terrify him anymore. That's a new feeling, not being scared.

He could get used to it.

It's exhausting.

Danny takes a nap.

\+ + +

He wakes at the doorbell, finds Jackson at the door. He has _Hoosiers_ in one hand, and a six-pack in the other, just the sight of which makes Danny feel like hurling. Then he holds it up. "I've got gin in the car if you want it, but I figured you'd prefer this."

It's ginger ale.

"Thank god," Danny says fervently as he lets Jackson in.

Jackson turns out to have _Miracle_ in addition to _Hoosiers_ , as well as _Rocky_ and, because he is a good, good man, _The Sandlot_.

He insists on _Hoosiers_ first, of course, but he makes popcorn and lets Danny pick the second movie.

That's a bear hug, in Jackson terms.

\+ + +

After the first hour and a half of _Hoosiers_ , Danny's hangover has mostly gone away. His love life is still a fucking mess, and he doesn't know what he's gonna do about his dad, but having Jackson and Gene Hackman there makes it all sting a little less.

He waits for Jackson to ask about Steven, because prying into Danny's love life is somehow Jackson's relentless hobby, but when Jackson finally speaks it's not about Steven at all.

"You never told me what you got arrested for," Jackson says, turning the ginger ale in his hands.

"Yeah, I did—hacking."

Jackson gives him his Daniel-Mahealani-Don't-Give-Me-That-Bullshit Look. It's shockingly similar to his mom's but somehow even more effective. "You know what I mean."

"It's kind of a long story."

Jackson shrugs, turns back to the movie. It occurs to Danny that this is one thing Jackson won't push him on, after pushing him to do everything else—everything he's had to do up until now but been too much of a baby to do on his own. He deserves to know the truth.

"My dad is—was an alcoholic." It feels weird to say it aloud. _Alcoholic_. "And it made him—it gave him a lot of problems."

Jackson looks like he has a million questions, all of them inpatient, but he doesn't say anything.

"And when I was twelve I fell down the stairs."

"Did he push you?"

"No! No, I tripped." Down the stairs after his dad, as he staggered towards the car.

"What happened?"

"I spent three months recuperating and got pretty good at computers. I'd only done small stuff before, just messing around because I was bored, but then mom got her new job and we moved and came to Beacon Hills." The words are somehow easier to say when Jackson is looking at him—easier than talking to Dr. Kaul. "And it hit me that he'd ruined my mom's life, and _my_ life, and I had to do something before he did something else."

"So you what, hacked him?"

"I stole his identity."

"You robbed him?"

"No." This part's a little harder. "I wanted to delete him: his emails, his accounts, anything."

"No shit." Jackson's eyes are bug wide.

"I was angry." Danny can finally admit it: "And scared—of being like him. I was pretty scared of that for a long time, but I don't think I am anymore."

Jackson nods, schools his face, takes a sip of ginger ale. Then he mutters, "I'm adopted."

His jaw's clenched, and Danny thinks that it must have been just as hard to spit that out as it had been for Danny to explain his own crap.

"When did you find out?"

"When I was eleven. They told me."

"Would you have rather they didn't?"

"I don't know." Jackson looks up, startled, clearly not the questioning he was expecting. "Maybe."

 _The Trick to Life_ blares at them mockingly.

Jackson snorts. "So there goes my give-a-fuck quota for the day. _Miracle_ or _Sandlot_?"

"What do you think?"

"I live in hope." Jackson goes for _The Sandlot_ and Danny makes more popcorn.

Scotty's trials and tribulations are as good as he remembers, and it's nice to laugh now, clear the air. Jackson's grinning too, having a good time like he always does even though he _always_ claims to hate this movie.

Danny realizes four things:

a) Jackson may claim to hate _The Sandlot_ but he is an enormous liar since he laughs at the same dumb antics every time and spills the popcorn.  
b) Jackson is mulish and bossy and laconic but  
c) he's always been there, whenever Danny needed him and  
d) Danny wants to give him that too: friendship, support, whatever he needs.

"Thanks," he says. He wants to say more, but Jackson is kind of an emotion-phobe and Danny doesn't want him to suffer, so he only adds, "For everything. You're a good friend."

Jackson grabs the bowl of popcorn from him with more violence than strictly necessary. "There's glitter all over my Porsche. I'm an _awesome_ friend."

"The best at everything for all time," Danny soothes. "And you know, if you ever need—if you ever want my help, I'm there for you. For whatever, no questions asked."

"Okay," says Jackson, with poorly faked nonchalance. He's staring very intensely at the screen. "Maybe someday I'll take you up on that."

They don't talk anymore after that, but the silence is comfortable.


End file.
